


summer sun

by thorinsbigdicko



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Day At The Beach, F/F, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7229419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorinsbigdicko/pseuds/thorinsbigdicko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the gang having a good time at the beach</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tevinterimperium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tevinterimperium/gifts).



> @ my friend, cecil: get rekt, kiddo

The waves lapped gently on the shore as Doc applied yet another layer of sunscreen on Donut’s back.

“The sun is the real killer out here,” Doc was saying, rubbing the lotion in circles on Donut’s shoulder blades, “without sunscreen, your skin would shrivel up and you would die!”

Donut wasn’t sure that was exactly what would happen, but everyone had given up questioning Doc’s medical practices some time ago.

“Alright, all done,” Doc said, “now do me.”

“With pleasure!” Donut responded, taking the bottle and allowing Doc to sit in front of him.

Once they were both nice and lathered, they spread out on the sand, Doc clad in purple trunks while Donut wore only a bright lightish-red speedo. Simmons and Grif had threatened to burn it when Donut had asked them for their opinion on how it looked on him, but in the end, they had done no such thing. Maybe because it said “Red Team” across the ass and Sarge had been strangely proud. Or, most likely, they had forgotten.

The rest of the Reds were a couple of feet away, still unpacking all they had brought on their trip. Sarge had insisted they bring some guns and ammo, despite the fact that the conflict on Chorus had ended some time ago, but no one had been able to dissuade the older man. The Blues, who Sarge was watching with a wary eye—old habits die hard—were already in the water, Tucker trying to get a piggy back ride from Wash, and Carolina and Caboose playing some form of tag. The lieutenants, who had heard the word “beach” and decided to tag along, were helping Red Team unload. Emily Grey was also with them, a fact that made some of them uneasy, but she seemed as excited for the trip as the rest of them.

They had all agreed to play at least one game of volleyball, later, even though everyone was aware it would descend into endless rematches, but for now they all just relaxed. After all their struggles, they had earned it.

Although the civil war had ended on Chorus, and Malcolm Hargrove’s forces had been taken down, along with his greedy ass, the peace between the Feds and New Republic was still shaky. Kimball and Doyle had been at each other’s throats more often than not, and when someone had suggested they take a day off and head somewhere relaxing, both leaders hadn’t been as opposed to it as the Reds and Blues would have thought. They had stopped arguing, and had actually agreed on when and where. It was the best cooperation anyone had seen between them since the end of the war.

They had called it a “Leadership Retreat”, but really it was just going to be them fucking around on the beach. However, Wash had still urged them all to try to get Kimball and Doyle to bond in any manner possible. He also ordered them to be subtle about it because the last thing they needed was the civil war to flare up again.  No one wanted to be on the opposite end of Wash _and_ Carolina’s wrath (because she, too, had given them a similar warning), so they complied as best they could. A civil war was minor compared to what the two freelancers could do to them.

Right now, both leaders were attending to different matters.

Kimball was helping Smith and Jensen set up a tent where they would put the food later in the day. The rest of the Lieutenants were watching from the sidelines, Palomo cheering and Bitters pretending not to care. Grif was not so subtly trying to steal the food they had brought along, with Simmons threatening to tell. Donut could hear their loud “whispers”, and he guessed Kimball could too. She could step in if Grif was actually on the verge of eating something (or everything, as it usually was).

Doyle and Emily were hip deep in the water, and Emily was yelling something about underwater specimens while Doyle held her equipment. No one was sure why she had volunteered to come along, but now it was obvious that science is what had drawn her to the ocean.

Donut watched the scene for another second before turning back to the blue ocean and sky. It was amazing how much the beaches of Chorus were like those of Earth. The planets were millions of light-years apart yet somehow there where things that transcended great distances. One of life’s great mysteries.

The sun was making its way sluggishly across the sky, and Donut guessed it was sometime around noon. Doc seemed to have fallen asleep next to him, but Donut had too much energy to stay still for long. He got up slowly, pecking a kiss on Doc’s forehead and placing his hat on Doc’s head so that he wouldn’t be accidentally woken up, or get a sunburn on his face. He watched the others before heading over to where they were still setting up the tents.

“D’ya need some help with that?” Donut asked, eyeing the situation. Palomo was now looking longingly towards the Blues while Bitters was readjusting his towel so that he wouldn’t get sand on his prosthetic leg. The others were helping Kimball with the set up.

“We’re good here,” Kimball replied, before they all heard a big splash and Emily’s high pitched yell. That was followed by Doyle’s slightly higher pitched apologizing. Donut turned and saw that Doyle had somehow fallen, dropping most of the equipment he had been holding for Emily. Both of them were trying to grab as much as they could before it was swept away by the current.

“But I think the general over there needs some help.” Kimball continued, trying to hide her grin. And failing. It was a wonder she hadn’t started to laugh and point.

Donut went over and waded in the cold water, helping the Fed duo gather their things.

“My thanks,” Doyle said, looking a little red from embarrassment.

“No problem,” answered Donut, happily holding onto whatever these things were until Dr. Grey finished her experiments.

“Amazing! It seems the flora and fauna of these beaches developed differently than those in the north. The isolation of the species must be a factor, although it seems the chemical composition of the water itself is unique,” she said, and although both men understood each word individually, they were confused as to what Emily was saying.

“Uh, good?” Doyle tried, mustering a smile.

“I’ll have to do some further tests back at the capital, but that’s great!” Emily answered.

“Good,” Donut repeated with a small smile. He didn’t understand any of this scientific stuff, but he knew it wasn’t bad either.

“We should take these back to the jeep before any other accidents happen,” Emily says, already heading towards the cars. The two men had to choice but to follow her, not that they were complaining.

*-*-*

Back in the water, Tucker was still trying to get Wash to give him a piggy back ride.

“C’mon Wash, we both know you’re strong enough!” Tucker cried for the tenth time.

“So are you, after all you never skipped leg day.” Wash countered, as he watched the rest of the group on the beach.

“Bullshit! At least carry me on your shoulders, and let’s fight Carolina and Caboose.” Tucker offered the idea enthusiastically, knowing competition was the best way to get Carolina, and by default Wash, to do anything he wanted.

“No, Tucker—”

“Hey, Carolina!” Tucker called, waving his arms, “bet you can’t carry Caboose on your shoulders!”

Carolina got that glint in her eye and Wash knew it wasn’t going to end well.

“Fine.” Wash finally gave in and gestured for Tucker to climb on his shoulders as Carolina did the same with Caboose.

As she approached, she called up to Caboose, “Destroy them.”

“For Church!” Caboose yelled, when he began grappling with Tucker.

Tucker managed to last all of a minute before Caboose got the better of him and Wash lost his footing. “Oh, fuck!” Tucker shouted as they both fell over. Even underwater they could hear Carolina’s triumphant and Caboose’s slightly-confused-but-still-clearly-triumphant laughter.

“Rematch?” Carolina asked, knowing they would both agree.

“Yeah, but this time it’s you and Wash.” Tucker said, moving his wet dreads out his face.

She agreed, letting Caboose off her shoulders.

Only a few minutes ago, Tucker had wanted Wash to carry him on his shoulders, but now it was the other way around.  “You sure about this?” Wash asked.

“Wreck her,” Tucker said, then added, a moment later, “Bow chicka bow wow.”

Wash sighed as he climbed onto Tucker’s shoulders.

He managed to last a little longer but eventually, Carolina managed to knock them down yet again. They both went down yelling, which succeeded in getting water in both of their mouths. Tucker spit the salty liquid out of his mouth, guessing Wash was doing the same.

Carolina was in great spirits after having won yet again. “Another round?” She called to them, a victorious smirk on her face.

“Fuck, no.” Tucker answered, “I’m going to go get a drink instead.” Defeat had made him bitter, and Wash was at least glad he had stopped asking for a piggyback ride.

“I will come with you to help you, Tucker!” Caboose yelled, really loudly, leaving the freelancers in the water alone. “Also to see if Church wants to join us!” He added, even though Church was only present in holographic form. He didn’t want to come at all, but Caboose had taken Carolina’s helmet at some point and brought it with them.

The freelancers just _relaxed_ for a minute, listening to the waves and the sounds from the shore.

“This is nice.” Carolina admitted to Wash, looking around at their little group.

Tucker had finally made it to shore, and Caboose was on his heels. Simmons was doing something with the sand, and Grif was lying next to him, seemingly asleep. Donut, Emily, and Doyle were nowhere to be seen, but Carolina guessed they were by the jeeps, packing up that which had drawn Dr. Grey here. Kimball and Jensen were unpacking the last of the supplies, taking out the long poles for the tents and the volleyball nets while the rest of the lieutenants watched. Sarge was “guarding” the food, probably from Grif, but he seemed to be enjoying himself, sipping on a beverage with ice. Doc was also lying on the beach, taking a nap, hat placed over his head to keep him cool.

It was moments like these where Carolina was painfully reminded how _young_ everyone was. It also made her so glad the war was finally over. If only these two generals could get along for once, all their problems would be solved.

After another moment of silence, Wash added quietly, “Better than sitting in on another argument back at the capital.”

They rested for as long as they could, content in the situation. Glad there was no yelling, no blood, no _death._ They had lost enough people in their lifetimes.

Donut finally reemerged from the jeeps, Doyle and Grey in tow. They approached the little group working on the tent, but Donut veered and headed towards the water instead. Kimball abandoned the lieutenants, who were struggling to set up the volleyball nets, and followed Donut as Doyle and Emily approached them. Carolina could bet Doyle approaching the group had a little something to do with Kimball leaving. No one else seemed to notice this change, but Carolina saw that Donut and Kimball were now approaching the freelancers.

“Heard there was a chicken fight going on.” Kimball said as she came closer, “can I join in?”

“Me, too!” Donut called.

Wash knew this would be a terrible idea, and started, “I think—” but Kimball interrupted.

“Dibs on Carolina.”

“Alright.” Carolina agreed, already moving to get Kimball on her shoulders, ignoring any protests Wash might have had. Both women had predatory smirks on, and Wash wondered what kind of trouble they could cause if they ever teamed up on important matters.

“We can take them, Wash,” Donut said, fist in the air.

“Oh, god. Fine, get on,” Wash offered, leaning down to get Donut on his shoulders. Carolina and Kimball were already waiting for them a few feet away.

“Let’s do this!” Donut cheered, as Carolina asked Kimball, “You got this?”

Kimball nodded and yelled, “Go!”

They grappled for longer than any of them thought would happen, but it seemed Donut and Kimball were evenly matched. However, eventually Wash fell again. And again. They had another rematch and lost but had yet another one and finally managed to knock Carolina and Kimball down. Both girls came out of the water soaked, but laughing.

“Feels good to lose.”  Carolina said, going under for a second time. She couldn’t remember a time when she had been so carefree and happy. Her father losing Allison had robbed her of a childhood, and after the shitfest that was Project Freelancer, she never really had time to be carefree. Now, though, _right now,_ the universe doesn’t demand anything of her. No one will die if she lets her guard down.

That’s what she’s trying to believe at least. Moments like these help.

*-*-*

“I’m dying!” Grif groaned _again_.

Simmons was fed up by his orange teammate’s constant complaining by now. “Grif, shut up.”

“Simmons, please!” Grif pleaded.

“I’m not going to steal shit for you, do it yourself.” Simmons snapped, irritated.

“But Simmons!” Grif cried, arms waving in the air from where he was lying on the sand.

Simmons decided the best course of action was to ignore Grif, who had been annoying him for the last ten minutes. Grif wanted Simmons to head to the jeeps—covertly—to get him something to drink, since everyone else was keeping an eye on Grif. Simmons wouldn’t do it because it wasn’t worth it to leave his sandcastle unguarded for any period of time, and he was pretty sure Sarge was “guarding” the food, guns and all. The older man really needed to learn how to relax.

So instead, Simmons focused on perfecting his sandcastle. So far, he only had the basic shape, but he had all afternoon to make it into something spectacular. Caboose was also working on something else with sand a few feet away, but it looked more like a blob-y leaning Tower of Pisa. Church, as a hologram, was trying to instruct him on how to make it bigger and more castle-like. Given that Caboose had barely started, it had some potential, but Simmons knew it wouldn’t really amount to anything.

Grif had given up trying to make Simmons his partner in crime, mumbling it “took too much effort” and he was now tanning in the sun. Well, the part of him that _could_ tan. Given that his skin was a patchwork of skin from the accident several years ago, back in Blood Gulch, there was an obvious discrepancy in skin pigmentation. Grif figured laying out in the sun might fix that, although Doc had warned him that wasn’t the best idea. Simmons just considered it one of his “invisible nap”-type ideas and had left Grif to it.

The lieutenants, sans Bitters, who was splayed out, taking a nap, taking after his captain, were trying to set up a volleyball net, and they were failing miserably.

“Listen, we have too—” Jensen said, trying to take control, but failing.

“Here, it’s supposed to go like this—” Palomo tried, also failing and making the structure collapse again.

It was infuriatingly hard to get the net set up. Really, one would figure this would have included instructions, but then again, they had found the net in an old, abandoned storage closet in the barracks, so it was a wonder it was complete at all. Instructions would have been too much to hope for.

Guns, they all knew inside and out. Random, luxury objects and their construction were entirely foreign to them all.

“Um, I don’t mean to intrude, but do you need some help there?”

The three of them turned around to the sight of Doyle, looking slightly nervous, although less so than usual, pointing to the net and poles. Dr. Grey was behind him, studying the bark of a nearby tree. . .thing.

“What makes you think—” Palomo started, although he never got to finish because Jensen elbowed him in the side.

They, too, had been told by Wash to try to be on friendly terms with both Doyle and Kimball. Kimball, they already liked and respected, but Doyle, they needed to work on (everyone in the New Republic seemed to dislike Doyle) (they never understood how his own army liked him) (the most popular theory was that there was something in the water at Armonia). But then again, none of them really wanted to incur the wrath of Agent Washington, since he was ever so fond of making them do laps. So they tried their best to be friendly.  

“Any help would be welcome.” Smith said, not so subtly shoving Palomo out of the way. They both backed up, letting the older man study the pieces of the net.

“He’s technically our superior.” Smith whispered urgently to Palomo, who took a seat away from the net-building.

“Ranks don’t fucking matter on the beach!” Palomo whispered back, glaring at Smith, who just took a seat next to him and glared back.

Doyle made this sort of humming noise as he studied the pieces, eventually trying a combination. It looked promising, but the net fell for the third time.

“Oh, dear,” Doyle said, moving to pick up the pieces for another attempt.

“No, no, no, you’re doing it all wrong!” Emily said, coming up behind them. Clearly the local fauna was not as interesting as their repeated failures. Doyle backed away to let Emily work, and she set up the net in record time. Jensen admired her work and eventually both women got sucked into a talk about the mechanics of _something_ as Doyle went back to the jeeps to get their volleyballs.

 The balls would be on the last jeep, but as Doyle reached it, he was met with an unusual sight. Lopez was spread out in the backseat, somehow enjoying the sun despite not having skin to do so. The brown robot looked up as Doyle was about to ask for the volleyballs that were at Lopez’s feet.

_“Oh, eres tú. El dirigente cobarde. Pensé que era el huevon, buscando comida.”_

Doyle looked uncomprehendingly at the robot, getting slightly red. “I don’t speak, uh. . .Spanish. . .er, robot?” He supplied, sheepishly.

_“No sé porque trato de hablar cuando nadie me entiende. Tampoco sé porque nadie ha arreglado mi puto programa.”_ Lopez sighed.

They stayed in awkward silence for a few minutes before Doyle finally pointed at the balls and got out “Can I have those, please?”. They had brought more than one ball. They knew themselves. Several balls would be destroyed, or lost, or most likely, _destroyed._

Lopez handed the sack of balls over begrudgingly, and Doyle left without another word. The encounter was strange, certainly, and he made a mental note to have Lopez fitted with a translator or something when they returned to the capital.

By the time he got back, the others had been informed of the imminent game and were now gathered around the nets, talking about how they would form teams.

“Well, obviously, it’s Reds vs Blues!” Sarge said, with a few others nodding along.

“What about those who are neither?” Bitters asked from his position on the floor.

Sarge got riled up at the comment. “Blasphemy! You’re either a Red or a Blue! There are no other factions!”

Wash and Carolina both sighed simultaneously as the group descended into argument.

Grif, surprisingly, was the one to offer the only good suggestion. “How about we just choose team captains? And then they pick their teams.”

Donut nodded enthusiastically at this and added, “It can be like some good ol’ fashioned PE class! Like the kind we had back on the farm!”

“Shut up, Donut.” The Reds said, almost in unison.

Carolina finally got fed up by the lack of order, and called out, “Alright, how about we just get into four groups. No team leaders.” She didn’t add that the last thing they needed was another divide between the Feds and Kimball’s group, but she couldn’t exactly force them into a team together. Choosing teams sounded like it would be a horrible idea but seemed the lesser of two evils.

It took some grumbling, and a lesson in counting, but they eventually managed to get four teams of nearly the same size made.

The first team consisted of Carolina, Caboose, and Kimball; the second team was Wash, Tucker, and Palomo, who Wash had agreed to let onto the team without first asking Tucker; the third team was made up of Sarge, Donut, and, surprisingly, Doyle. The final team of Smith, Bitters, Simmons and Grif was the biggest, but they weren’t exactly a powerhouse. Emily and Jensen were still talking about mechanics or engineering or something, but they stood on the sidelines, paying partial attention to the events going on. Doc was still asleep, and no one had remembered if he had wanted to play or not.

“Dibs on being called ‘Red Team’,” Sarge said, not a second after forming the teams.

“Hey, that’s not fair!” Grif yelled, “what are we gonna be, Blue Team!?”

“If you are, I’ll take you down, dirtbags!” Sarge said, making a fist.

“No team names.” Kimball and Doyle said, almost at the same time.

They looked at each other, before looking away again.

“Progress.” Carolina whispered to Wash as they stood on the sidelines. The first game was starting; it was Grif’s team against Sarge’s team. Kimball was pointedly looking away from Doyle, who was a lot redder than before, and who was also looking everywhere but the sidelines.

Sarge’s team at least had Donut, who seemed decent in the sport, and Sarge himself, who hated losing, especially to those he saw as his subordinates. This was Doyle’s first time playing, but he got the hang of it rather quickly, enough to not get hit in the space when Grif served the ball (terribly).

It came as no surprise when ‘Red Team’ won, especially considering that Grif put in only the minimal amount of effort and when he did try, he often crashed into Simmons, making them both fall to the ground in a heap of bodies, and that Bitters put in no effort, while Smith tried too hard. Between Simmons and Smith, they might have at least pulled a tie, but their teammates brought them down. When the match had ended, Simmons refused to speak to Grif, and returned to his sandcastle while the rest of his short-lived team stuck around for the new match.

Up next was Wash’s team against Carolina’s team.

Tucker tried to make a joke, but it got shut down pretty quickly by the opposing team. Wash turned out being terrible at volleyball, and succeeded in hitting the net only. Palomo at least made an effort, but in the end, Carolina and Kimball proved too fierce for them. Caboose could also spike like hell, impressing everyone present.

“Dirty Blues!” Sarge called out, more than once. It seemed that even when not prompted to, they always reverted back to their colored factions when choosing a side. Those things were basically in their genes now.

The anticipated final match finally came, and it made more than a few a little uneasy that Doyle and Kimball were on opposing sides, although they really shouldn’t have expected anything different.

“C’mon, we can take them,” Carolina encouraged as Caboose cheered. Someone had brought Epsilon in on the action, and he, too, cheered for his Freelancer. The others that stood on the sidelines watched passively, no one really rooting for either team. Some were afraid to.

“The only thing you’re taking is the sad feeling of defeat!” Sarge tried to trash talk, only succeeding in confusing everyone.

“Yeah, you tell ‘em, Sarge!” Donut cheered nonetheless.

“Yes, go team!” Doyle tried, failing at lifting anyone’s spirits.

“Just serve,” Carolina said, exasperated.

The first serve won a point for Team Sarge, whose leader yelled “You just got Sarge’d!” with no small degree of satisfaction. Carolina rolled her eyes as Doyle set up to serve next.

In the next turn, Kimball managed to create a tie, which led to some grumbling from Sarge, and some fierce competition from both sides. They managed to be neck to neck for the first half of the game, a pretty impressive feat that prompted the others to take bets on which team would emerge victorious. Grif was currently the most vocal about “Team Blue”, (not Blue Team because Wash shot him a look that could kill when he came close to placing _that_ kind of barrier between the teams) completely destroying “Team Sarge”, but he was mostly trying to play mind games to get Sarge to mess up. To him, it was the best moment in his entire day so far. However, Sarge got tired of Grif’s “nagging”, and aimed a serve right at his face, losing a point in the game but “gaining a point in this great game of life,” as he put it.

The lieutenants wanted to support their general, but they kept glancing at Wash, uncertain whether he could murder them for not choosing to support _both_ teams. Doc had finally joined in on the action, and he supported “Team Sarge”, too, but mostly Donut, who wouldn’t stop shooting his boyfriend a smile every time his team won a point. Jensen and Dr. Grey were still engrossed in a mechanical conversation, but they cheered (albeit uninterestedly) whenever anyone scored a point.

Suddenly, Kimball jumped up to spike the ball, while Doyle also rushed up to send it back on the side opposing. The timing could not have been worse: Kimball sent the ball down on the net just as Doyle reached the net, and he got a face full of volleyball for his troubles. The loud smack in the ensuing collision made everyone wince, and Doyle collapsed on the sand. The ball had hit him right in the face, knocking his glasses off, and causing him to lose this balance. Everyone watched in stunned silence; they could almost feel the tension, and the inevitable explosion of voices that was about to ensue.

“Oh, my god.” Kimball’s gasp broke the silence and unleased the flood of voices. Everyone spoke at once, partly amused, partly horrified, as Doyle struggled to get up. Donut rushed over to help the general, but Doyle seemed unscathed, for the most part. He sure was vocal about it, though.

“Ow! What was that for?!” Doyle asked, a hand to his face. He seemed fine besides the reddening of his cheek and the watering of his eye.

“Oh, my god, that was an accident I swear,” Kimball replied, something that came out as anything but sincere since she couldn’t quite hide her laughter.  “You got in the way of the ball. Not my fault. Sorry.”

Doyle huffed before walking off, muttering something about getting some ice. Everyone watched him leave, then turned to Kimball when he was out of sight.

“Do you think he needs Dr. Grey?” She asked, looking back at them.

Emily looked up at the mention is her name, seemingly oblivious to what had just transpired, then looked to Doyle’s retreating form, waving it away. “If he can walk, then he doesn’t need me. Unless…” She trailed off. No one wanted her to finish her train of thought.

Wash put his hand on the bridge of his nose, shaking his head, while the rest of the group dispersed. Leaving was a better alternative to whatever was about to go down.

“Wait! Who won?” Sarge asked, not really caring that one in his own team got hurt.

“I think they were in the lead, sir.” Donut supplied.

“Dammit.” Sarge grumbled, stomping off.

Donut went towards Doc, and they walked off together.

Eventually, the only two left were Carolina and Kimball. They were both staring in the direction of the food tent that was slowly filling with people.

Carolina turned to Kimball and said, “You should probably go apologize, Vanessa.”

Kimball turned to her, exasperation on her face. “I already did!”

“Well, then you should apologize _again._ ” Carolina replied with a little more force. Kimball didn’t reply and Carolina added, “Be the bigger person? I mean, it was a pretty good shot, but it did look painful.” She knew a thing or two about face injuries. The memory of a soldier in gold armor resurfaced, but she shoved it back down. No, this was nothing like that. It was considerably less serious, for one.

Kimball was glaring in the direction that Doyle had left.

“You know Doyle can’t take a hit.” Carolina tried one last time, smirking.

Kimball sighed. “ _Fine_.”

She walked off without another word and Carolina considered it a personal victory. She went off to find Wash to tell him the good news, and also to warn him in case they heard yelling or fighting or dying.

Kimball found Doyle sulking in the last jeep, sitting next to a clearly irritated Lopez, and holding a bag of ice to his slightly-less-red-but-still-redder-than-usual cheek.

“I don’t understand; I didn’t do anything this time!” Doyle was venting to Lopez, while gesturing wildly with his free hand.

She approached slowly but Doyle did not hear her coming closer.

“I am sorry, if that helps.” Kimball announced, placing a plate of food on the hood of the jeep. She figured she’d need some kind of peace offering. Doyle flinched at the sound of her introduction, and remained tense, looking at her warily.

“ _Por favor quítamelo de aquí._ ” Lopez’s plea fell to deaf ears but still he hoped they would leave him alone. The one day he didn’t have any broken machines to fix, the _only_ day where everyone else was too occupied to bother him, and these people still wouldn’t leave him alone.

Doyle turned towards the Mexican robot, but then turned back towards Kimball, visibly more relaxed. “It doesn’t help, but it’s still nice to hear, I suppose,” he got out, gripping the ice bag tighter. Thank god someone had wanted to have cold drinks at the beach, and had brought along ice. It still hurt, but the chill sure did help.

Lopez jumped out of the jeep, heading away from them both, apparently fed up with both of the generals. His annoyance was quite visibly clear despite that, though. He was complaining, but no one could understand a word he said.

“He can stand us as much as we can stand each other.” Kimball joked, and they both let out weak laughs. They were looking anywhere but at each other. Kimball was facing the shore, wondering what everyone else was up to, probably eating since it was late enough for them all to be hungry.

Doyle looked up at Kimball. “It was a good game, at least.”

“You hit _much_ better than you lead,” said Kimball.

“You hit slightly better than you lead,” Doyle shot back, although they both he that was as far as he would go as an insult. He was getting better at respecting her, although they had a long way to go. Doyle glanced up, worried, “you don’t think Sarge will want a rematch, do you?”

“Oh, there will definitely be a rematch. I don’t think that Red can take defeat.” Kimball laughed. Carolina would probably agree to a rematch, too. They still had plenty of hours left of sunlight. Another match was bound to happen. If not of volleyball, then of _something._

“They aren’t the best soldiers, but they are rather spirited aren’t they?” Doyle said, sighing and leaning back on the seat. He took the bag of ice off his face, holding it in his lap instead. Kimball snuck a glance and saw that the swelling had gone down, and that his eye was no longer leaking tears. She wasn’t _relieved_ or anything. Just glad there wouldn’t be any marks that would last until the next day. Or maybe it might bruise. She wasn’t too sure. She would have to ask Dr. Grey.

“They sure surprised me.” Kimball agreed, facing away from Doyle once more.

“I do believe this is the longest we’ve gone in each other’s presence without fighting.” He said, turning to her in surprise.

“Don’t push it.” Kimball said, looking back at him.

Doyle smiled sheepishly.

Back on the shore, everyone was helping themselves to the plethora of food they had brought along. Except for the generals, who were still missing, everyone was digging in. There were no chairs, so everyone just sat on the sand, near whatever shade they could find.

“Should we be worried one of them is gonna kill the other and hide the body?” Grif said in between hot dogs, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“They’re _not_ going to kill each other. I think.” Wash replied, sharing a look with Carolina in which his doubt was conveyed, “I hope.”

“Eh, if they haven’t killed each other already, I don’t think it’s gonna happen anytime soon.” Tucker supplied, not really feeding everyone’s confidence.

“Hey, I got twenty bucks on Kimball at least knocking Doyle unconscious.” Grif said, earning a smack from Simmons.

“If that happens, I can help!” Doc piped up from his spot next to Donut. They were both sharing food from Donut’s plate. The plate had more vegetables on it than anyone remembered bringing, but no one questioned it.

Lopez stumbled onto the beach, looked around at all of them, and threw his hands up in exasperation before walking off again.

“Who brought Lopez along?”

“He’s his own man, now.” Sarge said, wiping a (fake?) tear from his eye.

“I think he said something about Doyle or Kimball, and an. . .amputation?” Donut supplied, scratching his chin. Little did they know, Lopez had actually said something along the lines of, “I can’t get away from these fucking pricks,” but with more loud swearing.

“Someone should go check on them.” Simmons suggested, although he didn’t supply any names.

“Me and Doc can go.” Donut offered in the following silence. “After all, if one of them did lose an arm, they’ll need a good medic.” He placed a kiss on Doc’s forehead before getting up.

“What’s this I hear about someone needing a new arm?” Emily asked, turning to the rest of them. They ignored her, and the group lapsed into uneasy silence.

Doc and Donut were just reaching the tree line closest to the jeeps, when they stopped.

“Oh! There you are!” Donut called.

Kimball had come back. Alone.

“Holy shit she killed him.” Simmons whispered to Grif, who looked triumphant in that his betting pool would pay off.

“Where’s General Doyle?” Emily asked, her tone much more upbeat than anyone would expect. It made everyone uneasy. Even Kimball, who glanced at the other woman before jerking a thumb back to where she had come from.

“Back in the jeep,” she answered.

There was a moment of tense silence.

“Alive.” She added.

There was a couple of audible sighs.

She glared and went to heap a plate with food.

“I’m just going to go check.” Emily said when Kimball was out of earshot. She surprised everyone with her sudden concern for Doyle.

Later, after a relaxing afternoon and a great day overall (no one was injured, so that was considered a win by most present), and after the three rematches Sarge and Carolina agreed on (neither one of them was good at admitting defeat), which Carolina’s team ended up winning, Red Team unveiled the secret they had brought along.

“Dude. Are you sure those are safe?”

“Probably not.”

“Lopez made them!”

“Definitely not.”

“And you want to set them on fire.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to die.”

After the sun went down, the surprise came out. Sarge should have warned them all a little sooner, considering there were veterans of _actual_ wars among them, but instead he sent Simmons out to give a speech at the end of which they would set off the fireworks.

Simmons stumbled with his words, shooting looks at Sarge and the rest of Red Team every few seconds, and eventually Sarge got fed up.

“Glory to Red Team!” He proclaimed as he set off the first batch.

The colors were dazzlingly bright, and extremely close.

The sound deafened them all for a couple of seconds.

The aftermath made them all wish they had warned the group.

“What the fuck was that!?” Church yelled over the groaning.

Palomo stumbled across the turf, hands to his face. “My eyes!” He exclaimed dramatically.

Doc and Dr. Grey might have been able to help, but they, too were blinded.

“Who the hell thought that was a good idea?!” Wash’s high pitched scream came out.

“Tucker did it!” Caboose yelled, since that was his default whenever something went wrong.

“I was nowhere near that!” Tucker defended.

They were all a little blinded and just a bit deaf, but, hey, at least no one had died. Well, that is, until they found Sarge.

A fitting end to a perfect day.


End file.
